


Help Me

by kiraisstillhere



Series: Help Me to Help You [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: i need their sibling dynamic in my life okay, love these brothers so much, no one else was writing what i wanted so i fixed the problem and write my own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 15:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiraisstillhere/pseuds/kiraisstillhere
Summary: Diego doesn't want to admit that he cares about his siblings more than he lets on, and maybe, if he could just get through to Klaus, that could help a little.(this is Diego's POV of "Help You," but it can be read as a standalone as well!)





	Help Me

Diego hadn’t been sleeping well, per se, when he was woken up by the ungodly static from the police radio by his head. His bed, like every other thing in the boiler room, creaked and shook in a fairly concerning matter, but he couldn’t be bothered to see what was wrong with it. Life was stressful enough as is, even though he knew full and well that he had imposed it on himself. Diego didn’t  _ need _ to be a vigilante, but he also wasn’t really sure what else to do with his life after getting kicked out of the police academy.

 

The boiler was finally quiet after spending the first half of the night bumping around like it was the Tin Man’s rounder cousin. Maybe with cholesterol issues. One of the posters on the wall in front of him was peeling from its top corner, threatening to fall onto all of his dirty dishes that had taken residence in the sink. Along the wall, Diego saw the cleaning supplies that he exchanged for room and board, and was reminded of how the afternoon’s fight had left a gross smear of blood on the ring’s floor today, and how it had taken him way longer than usual to wipe up.

 

“We have a 10-33, waiting on more information. Person spotted in alleyway off of Seventh Street.”

 

Diego propped himself up on his elbow when he heard the operator call a 10-33. That was the police code for an emergency. Diego found his heart pounding a little faster when the operator came back on, announcing the next set of information in her cool, collected voice.

 

“Young white man, late twenties to early thirties, brown hair, thin, looks to be an overdose.”

 

His shoulder tensed, and he felt is stomach pull in a little. Diego hated hearing these kinds of transmissions, but he felt that he had to listen. It would be on his conscious if he didn’t.

 

“I need a 10-52, now. And maybe a 10-79, but stay posted.”

 

The pit of his stomach dropped to the balls of his feet and his heart started pounding in his ears, a deafening noise that quickly consumed his entire mind. 10-52 was scary, but not petrifying. An ambulance needed for an overdose was one thing, a commonality even. A 10-79 meant “notify the coroner.”

 

Diego didn’t like to hear a 10-79.

 

He chewed on his lower lip, something that Mom wouldn’t have liked very much, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had chills running up and down his arms, prickling the hair and begging him to put on a sweatshirt. The boiler started up again, banging around to the beat of Diego’s heart. He reached out with shaking fingers to grab the radio, waiting for the location that they would be transporting the body to.

 

“Station 1601, en route to the coroner’s lab.”

 

It wasn’t a body, not yet, anyway. There was a chance that the person wasn’t dead. There was a chance that they were just too out of it. Ketamine did that. It could make someone’s heart beat so slowly they seemed like they were dead, right? He knew that. He remembered how he’d found out about it and proceeded to shove the memory aside. He didn’t have to worry until there was an official announcement. 

 

Or maybe he didn’t.

 

He set the radio down on the dresser next to his bed again and picked up his phone, dialing Patch’s number. The wait was agonizing, and he felt himself slowly trying to lock away his fear so that he could think clearly.

 

The call connected, and before she could even speak, Diego was talking.

 

“Are you at work?”

 

The background noise definitely sounded like she was at work. There were people talking, and he could hear the click-clack of typing coming from somewhere closer to Patch.

 

“Uh, yeah. Why do you ask?” Her typing continued. Diego wondered if she was writing up a report.

 

He took a deep breath, consolidating his anxiety around the situation to one corner of his mind. “I need you to check something for me.”

 

The typing stopped. “You know I can’t do that -”

 

Diego cut her off. “In the coroner’s. I need you to ch-check on the ambulance that’s coming to you.” He had to remind himself to breathe, even if he could hold his breath indefinitely. He felt his lip curl as his stutter poked through.

 

Patch paused for a second. “Oh.  _ Oh _ .” She said quietly. Thank God that she knew not to say anything that sounded suspicious. “Yeah, yeah, I can. I will. Stay on the line, I just saw the ambulance pull in.”

 

Diego heard faint sounds of her clicking, possibly saving her work, and getting up from her chair. She told someone that she’d be back in a second, followed by the sounds of her walking away.

 

Diego stayed on the line for an hour, sitting up in bed, wondering if he should start praying, even if he only believed in higher powers. Once, while Diego was driving him back home from a night out, Klaus had slurred that there was a myth that you could see God if you drank an entire bottle of Robitussen. Diego had shuffled Klaus off to his room, and then hid all the bottles of cough syrup in his own bedroom, just in case. It wasn’t like he cared - he just didn’t want to worry about scraping Klaus off of the kitchen floor in the morning before everyone else woke up.

 

“Diego?” Patch came back on the line after being nothing but faint background noise. “You still there?”

 

Diego blinked, coming back to life almost, from his glazed over zone that he had been in. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I was thinking. You left me for an hour.” His voice was slow, taking a moment to come back to speed with the rest of his body.

 

“It’s not him.”

 

A sigh of relief escaped his lungs and Diego felt himself deflating and folding in in himself. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, grateful that he could count on her in times like this.

 

“Thanks, Patch.”

 

\--

 

When he woke up the next morning, Diego just laid in bed, staring at his ceiling, his hand resting on his stomach. Things like last night were unnervingly common for him, listening anxiously to the speaker while curled in his blankets, waiting for them to reveal the physical appearance of whoever they’d called for. If it wasn’t who he was thinking of, then he went back to sleep, albeit fitfully. He didn’t like thinking about the other people that he couldn’t save.

 

Speaking of which, Diego had to go help with the Facing Addiction group. He had already been late last week, and he didn’t want to have a repeat. There was no punishment, but he was under the impression that he should be as on-time to everything as he could.

 

He rolled himself out of bed and grabbed his shower things, getting ready for the day ahead of him. As he was pulling out of the Fighting Line parking lot, he could have sworn he’d seen the familiar swinging of the train of an unnecessarily long coat disappearing into an alleyway, but he brushed it off. Sure, that was a popular spot, but it was broad daylight and there hadn’t been dealers spotted there in a few months. Diego would have spent more time thinking about it, but he had places to be.

 

Today, they were helping out with a mix of things. There was a little meet-up at a local park being held for some people who had been out of the rehab that Facing Addiction was working with, and they were coming back to share how they were living now, and celebrating five years of sobriety. 

 

Diego parked and walked up to the little table on the grass where his team director was working, guiding people to their positions for the day.

 

“Hey, Anne, how are you?”

 

Anne was in her early sixties, with white hair cropped short on her head in the way that a lot of teenage boys had, with it longer on top than on the sides. She was sporting a streak of purple in the front, which matched her purple t-shirt. 

 

“Oh! Diego!” Anne said happily when she turned around and saw him. “I haven’t seen you in forever!” She set her clipboard down and hugged him tightly, before she walked out from behind the table. “Look at these clothes my grandkids picked out for me. We went shopping this weekend and Chloe wanted me to try a new style.”

 

Sure enough, Anne was wearing tapered light blue jeans and some high-top Nike shoes. She was very on-trend, and her grandkids made sure of that. From what he knew, Chloe was a fashionista who definitely had a career in the industry, if she wanted. She was apparently very business savvy. Micha, on the other hand, was equally as fashionable as his older sister, and was clearly inspired by her. He was always drawing, and Anne had revealed that he and Chloe were planning to start designing clothes together.

 

“They call it a “fit”,” Anne said excitedly. “Ah, but anyhow, back to work.” She picked up her clipboard again and scanned it for Diego’s name.

 

“You’re working the daycare, so you’ll be over there,” Anne motioned with her pen to a shaded area under a tree with a bunch of blankets set out. “I hope you’ve got energy, because those kids do.”

 

Diego grinned and walked over to the tree with a bounce in his step. When he and Eudora were still together, he thought about having kids. He wondered if he’d be a good dad, what with his own traumas from his upbringing.

 

He didn’t get to finish his thought, because a trio of little kids ran up to him with giant smiles that definitely said they were already causing trouble. The girl - who looked like Allison, if he was being honest - already had marker running down her cheek, and the two boys were smeared in mud up to their knees.

 

“What happened here?” Diego asked, squatting down to look at the kids at eye level. He had his eyebrows raised in question - he really did want to know how they’d gotten mud on them. The park had a creek, but it was a few minutes’ walk to it from their place under the tree.

 

“What happened there?” One of the boys pointed at the scar on Diego’s cheek. He had a mop of brown curls that were falling into his eyes, and a kid’s size Metallica t-shirt on. He reminded Diego a little too much of Klaus, right down to his quirked eyebrows.

 

“I got into a fight with someone,” Diego said matter-of-factly. May as well tell them the truth, though in as little detail as possible. They didn’t need to know that the “someone” was breaking into people’s houses to steal their valuables.

 

The little boy pursed his lips as if he were gauging the truth of Diego’s statement. His hands were shoved in his pockets, casually leaning back while he thought. 

 

_ Klaus standing that way when he wasn’t in his Academy uniform, hands deep in the pockets of his black jeans while he dug around for a joint. He wanted Diego to try it, just once. _

 

“Nathan,” the girl whined. “I want to go find bugs.”

 

The boy - Nathan - nodded his head. “I guess you’re being honest,” he told Diego, before turning to his friends. “Come on, Lilly, Daniel saw a tree with a ton of holes in it over by the drink table.”

 

The other little boy, with dark skin and his curls cut in a fade looked like the spitting image of his father, one of the recovering addicts that came to many of the Facing Addiction events. They ran away, giggling at the prospect of finding creepy-crawlies to show their parents.

 

Diego spent the rest of the afternoon keeping track of babies and toddlers, and the little trio of six year olds. Lilly had revealed their ages during a game of twenty questions with him, though he only had four questions asked before they got distracted.

 

When he got home, Diego went head-to-head with a punching bag for an hour, showered, and washed his dishes. He didn’t want to order takeout again, but he also didn’t want to cook. He settled for getting in his car and going to the deli a few blocks away. The radio crackled out police orders every now and then, but it was nothing more than a few teenagers being caught for graffiti, and a group of people doing burnouts and doughnuts in an empty parking lot.

 

\--

 

Diego was eating in bed when a call came in. The Cheerios in his bowl were already soggy, but he kept eating them, because, frankly, he was too lazy to make something else at this point. He paused the video he was watching online, something that one of the guys from the gym had told him to check out on YouTube. The static of the radio interrupted the instructor showing some fight techniques, and Diego set his bowl of cereal aside, grateful that he’d gone grocery shopping.

 

“I have a 10-33 and a 10-52, as fast as you can,” the dispatcher’s voice said, clear and loud, but in a hurry. “Overdose at Griddy’s Doughnuts on Kearny Street. White male, thin, brown hair, facial hair.”

 

He tensed up, waiting for the fateful 10-79 that he lived in fear of.

 

“Paramedics have confirmed that there is still a pulse and shallow breathing.”

 

“Ambulance en route,” a woman’s voice replied over the channel.

 

That was all it took for Diego’s heart to start pounding and for him to struggle out of his blankets and start to throw on his warmest clothes that didn’t have knives in them, which proved rather quickly to be a failed endeavor, all while desperately keying Patch’s phone number in with a thumb that felt too big and too slow all of a sudden.

 

If it  _ was _ him, Diego didn’t know why he was shocked that he would overdose at Griddy’s. If only Patch would pick up the damn phone, then he’d know for sure. He should have known that the coat from a few weeks ago belonged to who he thought it did.

 

“Diego? Why are you calling me?” Patch sounded irritated as his phone connected.

 

“Jesus, can I not call you?” His voice was gritty from not talking all day and he felt like he had to cough.

 

He heard Patch sigh over the phone. “What do you want?”

 

“Are you at work? Right now?” Diego hated the way that worry was slipping into his questions. He just needed information, and then he would be on his merry way, without anything to worry about. He wriggled into a hoodie from the club’s store and started on his shoes. He’d usually go for his boots, but his regular tennis shoes were easier to get into.

 

“No. What’s wrong? Do I need to be at work?” Patch already sounded frazzled, maybe even getting ready to leave her apartment at a moment’s notice.

 

Diego slipped into one shoe with ease, and moved to the next one, frantically trying to shove his foot in. “No, no, no - Jesus _ fucking _ Christ! Dammit!” He heard “Diego!” sharply through the phone and had to remind himself to think about what Eudora must be feeling right now. He was, after all, yelling into the phone and panicking over whether she was at work or not.

 

He needed to calm down, and quickly. He wanted to, but he was also in an unnecessary hurry. “Meet me at the station” was all Diego said before he hung up. It was important that he checked on who it was being rolled into the ambulance. He ran out to his car, barely remembering to grab his keys, and drove as quickly as he could to the police station. He didn’t need to be caught for speeding, not right now.

 

Diego burst through the doors of the station, going straight to the secretary.

 

“Where’s Detective Patch?” He said, the words tumbling out of his mouth as he hurried to the front desk.

 

The woman working it looked at him in shock, her pen still pressed against the crossword puzzle that she was filling out.

 

“Detective Patch isn’t here, sir,” she said slowly, eyeing his seemingly normal civilian clothes as if he was going to attack her.

 

He grunted angrily and stomped away from the desk. He had his fists balled up and he was a pacing in the lobby, trying to stay as calm as he could. His sneakers were scuffing against the tile when Patch walked through the double doors and up to him.

 

“Diego? I tried calling you. What’s wrong?” She was wearing casual clothes, still in sweats from a night in.

 

How did he tell her that he’d heard a dispatch that there was an addict who had overdosed? He wasn’t supposed to have the police radio, even if he did buy it online. The fact of the matter was, Diego wasn’t supposed to hear police calls, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to come tearing into the station, looking like he was a crazed boxer in his hoodie.

 

He steeled himself and took Patch by the shoulders, studying her eyes. “I need you t-to do something for me,” Diego said slowly, breathing heavily. “I need you to look at tonight’s reports. Please. I heard -” he paused - “I heard that they were bringing someone in. To the hospital.”

 

Patch shook her head. “Diego, I-”

 

“I just need to know if it’s, you know, if he’s…”

 

Patch just nodded. Diego was glad that she understood him. It was a way that no one had ever looked at him before. She saw him for his heart, he liked to think.

 

\--

 

Diego spent the next thirty minutes sitting anxiously in an uncomfortable plastic seat, wishing there was a cushion, before deciding that the cushion would be equally disappointing. His knee hadn’t stopped bouncing since Patch had went back into the offices to see what she could find about the latest dispatch. He’d tried to pass the time thinking about anything else; the new technique he was working on (he made a mental note to ask Big Mike about it), the neon orange poster in the window of his favorite Thai food place that said they were going to start selling milk tea, even the fact that he needed a new spray bottle for the gym. Allison and her family smiled at him from the glossy cover of a magazine that had been left behind on the little table by some unsuspecting person. 

 

He heard footsteps slowly approaching him and then stopping abruptly, and looked up to see Patch standing a few feet away. He stood up, ready to talk, but Diego didn’t know how to form the words on his tongue, and settled for a silent “is it him?” hanging from his open mouth.

 

Patch chewed on her lower lip for a moment before pressing her mouth into a line. It  _ was _ him. Diego wanted to scream. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. How was he supposed to react? What was the proper response when you found out that your brother was in an ambulance, being taken away to God knows where, and you couldn’t do anything about it?

 

“Where are they taking him?” Diego felt the worry inside of him shift to anger bubbling up in his chest and spreading to the rest of his body. “Eudora,  _ where are they taking my brother _ !” He caught himself pulling his fists up in a defensive position, stopping them at his hips - still on guard, still afraid that he would have to protect himself. “Tell me, dammit, I need to know!”

 

Patch’s mouth hung open, but Diego couldn’t stop himself now, not with the cocktail of emotions racing through him.

 

“Please!” Diego realized he was still shouting. He took a shaky breath and stood still in the middle of the room, the worn bottoms of his Converse doing a very poor job of keeping the cold away from his feet.

 

“I don’t know!”

 

Patch looked at him with wide, scared eyes, glassy with tears that threatened to spill over. She had her hands forward, low, but ready to hold them up and shelter herself from Diego. He felt his heart sink into his stomach. He hated that he had scared her. 

 

He knew that he was punchy - there was a reason his job hunting had taken him to Fighting Line, and it wasn’t because he adored the idea of getting excited when new vacuums were on the market. When he wasn’t out on his own self-imposed “missions”, he was working himself to the bone in the gym, taking out his emotions on foam dummies that probably didn’t deserve the abuse he put them through.

 

“Look, I’m sorry for yelling,” he said, steeling himself against his fear. “I just - you kn-know how it is. I need to get him.” He grimaced at his stutter.

 

Patch took a deep breath, probably calming herself from the shock of Diego grabbing her. He felt so sorry, wished he could make it up to her. Maybe he’d get her lunch one day or something to apologize. She brushed her hair behind her ear. 

 

“They’re probably taking him to Mercy hospital to help him through the overdose,” she said plainly, before putting a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t take him home, Diego. Not the way he’s been going.” He met her concerned look with sad eyes.

 

Diego still wanted to hit something. He pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth. He felt shoulders slump in defeat. Patch was right; he wasn’t a doctor, and he certainly didn’t have the means to help. He couldn’t help him, and Diego had to come to terms with that fact.

 

“You can’t fix him,” Patch said softly. “I know you want to, but not everything can be remedied without a professional.”

 

Tears almost formed, but Diego held them back. “Can you find out which rehab they’re taking him to?” He asked with a barely-there waver in his voice. “I want to get him when he gets out.”

 

Patch nodded, her hand still on his shoulder. She had always been able to at least subdue the explosive emotions that he had with just a touch. He was thankful that she still wanted to help him, even after their relationship had ended.

 

“I can try, but I can’t promise anything. Patient confidentiality still applies to homeless addicts, even if there are people who don’t think it should.”

 

Diego nodded, the feeling of defeat growing alongside his exhaustion over rushing to the station.

 

“Go home,” Patch said sternly. “Get some sleep. I’ll do what I can. You need to calm down before one of those poor dummies at the club gets hacked to pieces.” She patted him on the shoulder before turning him towards the doors and urging him forward.

 

\--

 

One of those poor dummies did get hacked to pieces, but it wouldn’t be noticed until morning, so it didn’t matter.

 

Diego spent the rest of the night angrily staring at the pipes on his ceiling because he didn’t want to think about the fact that so many people overdosed every day, and he wasn’t really mentally prepared to lose someone to drugs the way that he’d seen so many of the people at Facing Addiction had. He’d spent hours upon days hearing the stories and helping people work through the pain that was left behind, and he didn’t know how he’d hold up on his own.

 

Diego felt tears dribble down the sides of his face, slipping into his ears uncomfortably, but he was too focused on his own worries to be bothered. He felt his heart seemingly well up and then sink again - it had been happening all night, his anxiety over the hospitalization and where he’d find him next; _ when _ they’d find him next. Diego couldn’t stop the hurricane of thoughts that swarmed his head as he lay there, his chest tightening as he thought about grungy alleyways and dented dumpsters outside of restaurants. Diego tried to imagine what it was like for someone to find him in Griddy’s, thick layers of dirt and grime on skin against the tile floor of a diner bathroom, maybe the chipped plastic of the stall door while his head lolled against it. Was he shaking? Was he conscious? Did he know that he’d gone too far this time? Did he tell himself that it was  _ just this time _ , did he know that he was almost another lost life in the statistics that Diego had memorized over the years?

 

\-- 

  
  


Patch called him two weeks later. 

 

It was a sunny Saturday morning, and Diego was listening to music on the main gym floor, dancing in ways that didn’t matter, glad that no one was going to show up until the gym opened at noon. He was the only person who lived there, so it only made sense that he would clean and make everything look nice in the mornings. His phone rang shrilly, cutting into the beats of the song and making Diego stop what he was doing.

 

He twisted the volume knob as he walked past, turning the music down, and checked the name on his phone before answering, and wondered if he should invest in a smartphone at this point. “Hey, Patch,” he said, a little winded from his cardio. “What’s up?”

 

“Why do you sound out of breath?” Patch asked. She didn’t sound concerned, maybe calm - happy, even. “Were you running?”

 

Diego glanced back at the stereo, still quietly playing some nineties hit single. Britney Spears was good cleaning music, and that was a fact. Diego couldn’t argue with facts.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Diego answered, taking another deep breath and putting his hand on his hip. “What’s up, though? Why are you calling?”

 

He heard Patch snort through her nose. “I was calling to tell you that he got placed in Victoria Rehabilitation Center. He’s been mandated to stay, so he can only leave if someone else comes and gets him.”

 

Diego stood up a little straighter. “Does that mean I can -?” He felt a little excitement and a little adrenaline start kicking in. He could tidy up his room - his blankets were probably soft enough that it wouldn’t matter too much if he didn’t throw them in the wash again.

 

He could envision Patch shaking her head over the phone. “I think it’s best that he stay for a few weeks. It’s only a month, Diego, don’t go slack-jawed over it.”

 

Diego shut his mouth, only a little surprised by the fact that she could tell that his jaw had dropped at her proposal to leave him. How was Diego supposed to just  _ leave _ his brother alone? Especially after an overdose? No way, off the table, not considered. Diego wouldn’t stand for it. A whole month would kill him, Diego was certain.

 

He adjusted his feet and crossed the arm that had been resting on his hip under the elbow of the arm that was holding his phone. His hips swayed from side to side slowly, his attitude about the situation coming out in a physical form.

 

“Let him get some professional help. It’ll do him good.”

 

Diego shook his head out of subconscious habit. “He’s had professional help before. It doesn’t  _ work _ . He just ends up back on the streets, searching through dingy places to chase a high. It hasn’t helped him in years, why would it help him now?”

 

Patch sighed over the phone. “It’s a process. You know that better than anyone else, right? You work with people who have to go through the same things that he’s going through.”

 

Diego pursed his lips and his shoulders slumped. He  _ did _ know, he’d heard story after story about the slip-ups and relapses that it had taken for people to get to the point in their life where they were sober. Even a few weeks ago at the Facing Addiction event, they’d had a time where everyone sat down and shared their pride of being sober for five years and the struggles they’d had along the way. So yeah, Diego knew better than most people.

 

“I’m still going to pick him up as soon as I can. I’m not going to let him go straight to a porch foyer after he gets out.”

 

“Fine by me.” Diego knew that Patch was waving her hand in the air, taking no more of a part in the situation unless she had to.

 

She hung up, and Diego set his phone back down. He had to finish wiping down the front counter, then he’d go check out Victoria Rehabilitation Center. There was also the fact that it was lunch time, and he was hungry, and there was a Mexican place by the building that he’d heard good reviews about.

 

\--

 

Victoria Rehab was not a welcoming place, and Diego was immediately aware of that by the fact that the lobby of the place was full of horrendous green furniture and walls. The carpet was a muddy color, but Diego couldn’t tell which color, exactly. It looked like the place hadn’t been updated since that mid-seventies, and frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

 

Diego also knew upon entry that his idiot brother would  _ hate _ the place if he saw the lobby. If there was anything he was picky about, it was color schemes, for some ungodly reason. Diego didn’t know how his brother had ever managed to be so great with interior design, despite looking like he’d rolled out of a Party City every time he “dressed up” for an occasion.

 

He walked to the front window rather sheepishly for all of his swagger, waiting for the secretary to take notice of him. Diego was surprised to see that she wasn’t wearing scrubs, but then again, this wasn’t a hospital, this was a rehab. Maybe the rules were different here, and secretaries could dress up in rockabilly attire with no consequences if they so desired.

 

She looked up with her pen against her temple and smiled at him with bright purple lips. “How can I help you today, sweetie?”

 

Diego was taken aback by how much she gave off the same feeling of comfort that Anne had. Her voice was cheerful and Diego felt that she couldn’t hurt anyone, even if she tried. Her white hair was tied up with a bright purple bow that matched her lipstick, and he hoped that her grandkids, if she had them, were proud to have such a cool grandma.

 

“Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me about one of the patients that’s here?” He asked, resting his hands on the counter and sounding sketchier than he intended. He’d tried to look as non-threatening as possible, but he didn’t own much in the way of color, so he’d gone with his shocking purple Facing Addiction shirt from the other week - the only shirt he’d figured would make him stand out as obviously not a drug dealer.

 

The secretary raised her eyebrows and glanced at whatever was on her desk for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Depends on what you want to know. There’s a lot of classified information.”

 

Diego laced his fingers together. “I’m just wondering if you guys got a newer patient in? He would have been brought in around two weeks ago?”

 

“That’s a pretty broad range of criteria, honey.” She sounded a little saddened? By his description. She probably assumed that he was searching around the rehabs for someone in particular - he knew that it was a common thing to happen.

 

“He’s real skinny, twiggy even. He’s got brown hair and a goatee-moustache thing going on. He might have only been in his underwear when he was brought here?” Diego was almost embarrassed to say the last part, but his brother not wearing pants was something that he’d been well-acquainted with over the years.

 

She raised one black eyebrow at him, but nodded slowly. “We did have one person, but I can’t give you any information on him. I wish I could, but we respect patient privacy here. And to be honest, he’s got nothing on record, and the medical staff that escorted him said he was homeless, so I couldn’t help even if I tried.” She made a face that Diego felt was meant to convey disappointment at the situation, but he had been expecting that answer.

 

“Could you at least tell me when he’s slated to get out? I’m his brother.”

 

The secretary’s eyes widened, and her eyes said that she was just a little suspicious of the claim that he’d just made. Diego sighed and nodded. He had a black long-sleeve on under his shirt, so he rolled the fabric of his left arm up, showing her the umbrella tattoo. They’d always worn coats during their missions, so no one else would have known that it was them unless they’d personally seen it. Diego knew for a fact that, out of himself and the other three of them that still lived on planet Earth, one didn’t have the tattoo, one kept it covered with performance-grade makeup, and one would only have it seen by medical professionals.

 

The secretary’s mouth formed into an o-shape before she nodded. “I see,” she said, sounding a little awestruck as she turned to her computer. “Well,” she said, typing information into her computer. “Technically he’s free to go at any time, but I’d recommend he stay for at least another week.”

 

“You and everyone else who knows him,” Diego muttered under his breath. Why did Patch have to be right about things? “Can I come back in and get him after that?”

 

“Oh, sure hon,” the secretary said brightly, falling back into her cheerful personality. “I’ll keep an eye out for ya.” She smiled.

 

Diego thanked her and walked back to his car. He noticed the windshield was getting a little dirty; he’d have to wipe it down at a gas station later. Currently, he needed food though, and a plate of enchiladas was practically calling his name from down the street.

 

\--

 

A week later, Diego found himself in the godawful greenery of Victoria Rehabilitation Center. He’d signed some paperwork at the front and he found himself getting kind of comfortable in the chairs, glancing at the magazines. Allison’s family seemed to pop up on the glossy covers whenever he found himself in stressful situations. The juxtaposition of their smiling faces as their lives got broadcasted to the world via People Magazine interviews to Diego sitting with his knee bouncing and wiping his clammy palms on his jeans was becoming interestingly consistent.

 

An old man, a guy with the swagger of a biker who’d seen everything under the sun, walked out into the lobby first, and Diego could swear that time froze for a moment. He thought of all the times that he’d seen Mom in  the bedroom, her hand resting on the back of his brother’s head while he trembled beneath the blankets. The time that Mom took him to the store without Dad’s knowledge so that the matching pyjamas wouldn’t get dirtied by the sweat and dirt that was seemingly stamped onto his skin.

 

Diego saw the wide green eyes, hair sticking up at odds and ends. A sweatshirt and sweats that were too many sizes too big, and Diego couldn’t figure out if it was because he was naturally lanky or if it was the years of drug abuse. Probably both, but Diego didn’t want to think of that.

 

He thought of Nathan, the little boy whose father was a recovering heroin addict that had spent years upon years working for the ability to get custody of his son from CPS. The way Nathan had cried when it was revealed that his mom was still using, and the joy that had been there when judge ruled that his father was his primary caregiver. The way that Nathan’s wide eyes and black clothes matched, and the Converse that were identical to the pair that were scuffed to no end.

 

Klaus.

 

The biker dude waved his hand, beckoning Diego closer.

 

He felt like he couldn’t blink, afraid he’d lose Klaus after finding him again. Diego knew the look in his brother’s eyes - eyes looked tired from trying, just trying to exist. The yellowing bags under the sockets told Diego everything he needed to know about the years he hadn’t seen him. It was the look of being pushed back against when you put all your effort towards being better. The hurt and exhaustion of being forced to confront the things that addiction helped you avoid, and the underlying knowledge that, most likely, the addiction would win again.

 

Diego didn’t want the addiction to win again, but Klaus had to want the same thing, and it made Diego’s heart sink a little that he could only try to put Klaus on that path. Patch was right - Diego knew the pain of recovery was a process, and he knew that Klaus had been caught in this cycle for a long time. The best he could do was give Klaus a warm place to sleep for a few nights.

 

Klaus’ eyebrows wrinkled together, studying his face, and Diego remembered Nathan’s question from the picnic.

 

_ “What happened there?” _

 

The scar was big, from a rough fight that Diego had almost lost an eye in. He’d been protecting a family that had been at risk of being killed by the thieves in their home, guys who’d been part of a larger crime ring. He forgot about it being on his face, seeing as it was such a commonality to him (that, and he didn’t have a mirror to look in and comb over his appearance every morning).

 

He swallowed and felt his vocal chords seem to spring back to life.

 

“You got all your stuff?”

 

Klaus nodded, still wide-eyed and unable to speak, apparently.

 

“We should, ah, get going, then.”

 

Diego had to find his drive to move again, turning himself slowly to the doors and walking forward. He heard the other man talking to Klaus, but didn’t tune in. He stopped and half-turned to face Klaus, waiting for him. The man nudged Klaus forward, and he walked to Diego, the two of them heading out into the daylight.

 

Diego felt like it was almost poetic, he and Klaus walking out into the sun from the inside of the rehab. Some symbolism of leaving a dark place and coming into the light, maybe, but he didn’t feel that Klaus would appreciate the commentary, so he kept his mouth shut while he opened the passenger’s side door for his brother. He got in on the driver’s side, buckling his seatbelt and starting the car. The weight of silence was unusual, especially with Klaus sitting next to him, still looking a little dazed by the fact that Diego was there.

 

The thought of driving back to the boxing club in complete silence was already putting Diego off, and he wondered if Klaus liked nineties punk. He thought he had a few CDs in the glove compartment.

 

Thankfully, Diego didn’t have to ask Klaus about the music, because his brother had finally found his voice, along with his off-centered grin.

 

“Not even a snarky comment to greet me? Did you think I was dead?”

 

Diego gripped the steering wheel and steeled himself.

 

“Yes.”

 

\--

 

Diego pulled into the parking lot of Fighting Line, glancing at the alleyway and wondering if anything had gone down recently. He was glad that it wasn’t the busy part of the day - there were enough regulars as it was. All he had to do was get Klaus into the back, and he could leave the questions for later. He glanced over to Klaus, who had a bizarre look of fear on his face, like Diego was going to throw him in the boxing ring with Big Mike or something.

 

“Come on,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door. He probably sounded meaner than he wanted to, but he was still kind of anxious and he didn’t want to deal with those feelings at the moment.

 

They got out and looked at each other over the roof of the car, Klaus squinting as the sun reflected off the paint. His brows were furrowed and Diego wondered if it was from the sun or from confusion.

 

“Wha- Where are we going?”

 

Diego felt his face fall into a habitual “are you really that stupid” look. Muscle memory clearly lasted forever, because it happened in an instant. “We’re going inside.” He wondered if Klaus realized that he almost missed being mean to him.

 

He turned and hoped that Klaus was following him inside as he walked to the door. Diego wondered if he would have to give anyone a death glare when they entered. His fears were assuaged when they walked in and he was greeted by almost all of the instructors and regulars shouting their hellos at him upon entry. The smell of sweat was comforting, something that he was used to when he got stressed. The sounds of people working out eased Diego’s mind, and he surveyed the scene before him as Klaus stood just a little behind him. 

 

Big Mike and Owen O’Callaghan were sparring in the ring, with Al watching al shouting, as per usual. Diego figured they were testing Owen’s newest move before his next fight. The defense course was going over some of their basic forms, and some of the teenagers had a match next weekend, so they were practicing with some of the coaches in the back.

 

He waved to everyone as he walked to the back door that lead to his living space, through the “employees only” door. The lights in the hall buzzed, and Diego wished he had the money to update them, but membership fees only paid for so much, and some new canvas for the ring was a better investment in the long run.

 

“This all seems a little sketchy, Diego.” Klaus’ voice wavered from behind his shoulder. Diego could imagine the way that Klaus was looking around, probably looking a bit like a caged animal. “I have a friend’s place I can go to -”

 

“It’s fine,” Diego said, pushing the door of the boiler room open and stepping in. He flicked on the lights and walked down the stairs, looking at his full sink and making a mental note to clean up his dishes. He kicked a dirty shirt up from the floor and caught it in his hand, and grabbed the sweater off his bed, tossing them into the hamper that sat at the foot of his bed.

 

“You can put your stuff anywhere.” He tugged his blankets back to the pillows, smoothing them out a little. He was already planning on having Klaus sleep in the bed. Diego had a sleeping bag and an extra mattress under the stairs, he’d be fine.

 

He glanced over at Klaus while he was moving some more of his clothes off the foot of the bed and into the hamper; Klaus was looking around at some of the decorations that Diego had hanging on the walls. He saw Klaus’ eyes linger on the embroidery that Mom had made for him, and Diego found himself wondering if Klaus still had his.

 

_ Klaus had left in the middle of the night, just gone from his room. Diego knew that he’d been struggling with a lot, especially since Ben’s death. They’d been sharing the room, and Klaus hadn’t even been able to sleep in it since. Mom often found him sleeping haphazardly on the couch, either because he’d run down in the middle of the night, or because he’d come home from a night out doing whatever it was that he did, and he hadn’t had the stability or clarity to get anywhere else. Once, Diego had found him halfway up the second staircase. This time though, the alarm for a mission went off and Klaus was nowhere to be found. They shouted until Dad had forced Diego and the others out to the car, leaving Pogo and Mom to put their best effort into finding their missing sibling. _

 

_ They never found him. _

 

_ No more smelling chocolate chip waffles at ten in the morning as Klaus finally made his way down the stairs, no more peering in through the door when Mom left it open while she brought him water, nothing. No more. Diego had already lost two brothers, and he didn’t really know the other one, and Klaus was gone now too. _

 

_ The last time Diego had snuck into the mansion, he’d walked by Klaus’ and Ben’s room, and debated on peeking in for a moment, wondering what it looked like. It was untouched, the door only opened a crack, the way they were hinged to do. Diego couldn’t find it in himself to actually look, so he went to his old room and grabbed the stuffed chicken that he’d left behind under his bed. He shoved the animal in his knapsack and got back out of the house, watching through the window as Luther got up and peered into the hall for a moment before going back to his room. Diego moved on to the next window, where Klaus’ room would be. He peered through the crack in the curtain to see Mom sitting on the bed, smiling at the door. Diego was worried that she was broken down, just wires and metal now, until she tilted her head a little and he realized that she was looking at the embroideries of Klaus’ and Ben’s masks that were hanging on either side. Diego felt his heart sink a little, and he disappeared into the darkness. _

 

His stuffed chicken was in Diego’s bed, sitting next to the small pile of pillows that he slept with. Mom had taken him out to the store with her to go grocery shopping, and Diego had fallen in love with it in the toy aisle. Grace had smiled and bought it for him, and he’d had it ever since. He’d regretted moving out without it, hence sneaking back in to get it.

 

He shook himself back to reality and saw Klaus sitting criss-cross in the chair next to the shelf of knick-knacks that Diego had. 

 

“How did you know I was here?” He asked, pulling his legs up.

 

Diego shrugged, nudging his hamper away with is foot to make a little more space for himself to stand. Much like revealing how he’d gotten his scar to Nathan, he figured that there was no point in lying. “Saw you buying from someone in the alleyway across the street. It had to be you because I remember when you bought that coat and had Mom tailor it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He saw how Klaus looked ruffled by being in Diego’s place and not in the rehab. He wondered where Klaus would have gone when he had fully served a month in Victoria. Probably to someone’s house - he’d talked with plenty of people who had faked relationships just for a place to stay for a little while. He wished that Klaus would stay with him, but one of the parameters for living in Diego’s place would be no drug use, and he realized that Klaus most likely hadn’t reached the point of abuse that would make him want to change his ways. Not yet, anyhow. It broke Diego’s heart.

 

Klaus picked up the bag that had all of his things from the rehab in it and started to stand. “Y’know, Diego,” he said, rushing the words out, “I should get going, I have to find my coat, and I don’t want to bother -”

 

Diego felt his anger and concern flare up for just a split second before he reeled them back in. Yelling at Klaus would do no good. “You’re staying here tonight,” he said firmly.

 

Klaus’ mouth gaped open a little, ready to tell Diego about the friends he had or the shelter he knew of that would take him in. God, why couldn’t Klaus see that Diego cared about him?

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Diego said sharply. Klaus shut his mouth and his eyes widened in shock. Diego took a breath. “You’re here. No excuses.”

 

He watched Klaus slowly sit back down and set his things aside. He wanted to tell Klaus that he wished he could have known how much he would miss his brother. He’d already lost Ben and Five, and losing Klaus had actually hurt Diego more than he thought it would. He wanted to tell Klaus everything that he’d felt over the years, but he settled for something that he hoped would make Klaus feel safe. He turned and opened the drawer that held all of his menus and saw the one for his favorite diner on this side of town. He grabbed it, along with a few other takeout menus in case Klaus wanted some variety, and turned back around.

 

“So,” he said, holding the stack of takeout menus in his hand. “I don’t currently have a waffle maker, but this diner down the street has really good chocolate chip waffles.”


End file.
